I could never live,

in a red brick house,

with frilly nets,

that pucker and flounce.

 

With rooms so square,

shaped like a box;

oh no! not me,

give me stone and rocks.

 

Victorian aged,

with features so old

flag stone floors,

that strike up the cold.

 

Stone inglenook fires,

glowing embers and coal,

black basalt hearth,

to bear my soles.

 

Mullioned windows,

shutters and sash,

transom light, stained,

carved fine mountain ash.

 

A long sweeping drive,

to a panelled oak door,

proud portico porch,

chequerboard floor.

 

Orchard and lawns,

domed topiary box,

walled kitchen garden,

growing herbs, veg, and stocks.

 

That’s my dream house,

from my sepia past,

how I long to be there,

and remain everlast.

 

© Hazelhurst 04.12.2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm